Small Increments of Love
by DeusLux
Summary: He treated her as he treated Downton: with the utmost respect and chivalry. To him, she was as delicate and as revered as the heirlooms found inside the house, and was to be treasured with all of his tenderness and care. In regard to Elsie Hughes, his was always a slow show of affections.


It was only after her life was threatened that Mr. Carson realized that he could not have managed his own life without hers.

It was common knowledge that they were a pair, if only in the most professional connotation of the word. They were business partners, coworkers, and comrades, but he knew close friends, valued confidants and like-minded companions had also fit into the equation. They were always together, always unified; it seemed as though one could not make a proper decision without the other's approval. They kept tightly-constrained concentric circles around each other, managing in unison, commanding as captains would a ship, and always, _always_ returning to their original joint position in the center of it all. The Crawleys and their kin might have been the dressings and elegance of Downton Abbey, but they were the resolute pillars shouldering the weight of both up and downstairs, and making sure neither end collapsed into the other. So routine has their positions been that it was only until the danger of permanent separation did Carson awaken to his own neediness.

Sometimes alone in his pantry he silently curses himself for not reading the signs earlier. After all, she completed his pair, and what worth would a pair be with only a Carson? (He had previously discovered this fact when _The Cheerful Charlies_ took a turn for the worst.) She was faltering, failing in increments, and he could only spite her. He was rude, inconsiderate, _crabby_ even. In the solitude of his pantry, he can remember how his sharp tongue felt across the backs of his teeth, rolling over every syllable of insult and expelling them for her to mule over and over again at her convenience. "Pull your weight," he said. It was tragic to realize after that he himself could not pull his own colossal weight, baggage, regrets and responsibilities— without her as a pillar.

Carson ghosted through his daily routine without her like a lost soul, and only until Mrs. Patmore returned with the optimistic report from Dr. Clarkson did joy return to him. Pure joy— overflowing his heart, flooding his rational and bursting forth through a song on his lips. Her health was the gospel of his existence; in her sickness she illuminated his long-forgotten aspirations and in her strength she gave him vibrancy, life, a song or two.

In his elations, Carson felt a small kindling, a slow burning flame deep in the inner sanctum of his heart where wind and storm and trial could not reach. He began to desire her happiness, her sidelong glances and stifled giggles. When he would report to her throughout the day, he would notice her quirks. After a shared joke, her eyes would hold a small twinkle to them as she would say, "Now Mr. Carson..." (A steely blue, he recalls. Like the waters off Argyll.) The small quirk of her lips while suppressing a smile made his heart flutter. When brimming with confidence, her hips would sway in the way that made Carson swell with pride. Sometimes he would try to find ways to bump into her in the servants' hall; he became dependent on their morning breakfast and their shared evenings.

And so to completely eradicate any remembrance of those days of anguished limbo where Elsie Hughes' fate was undecided, Charles Carson would hand over to Elsie all of his affections.

His was always a slow show of affections.

When they occupied her sitting room in the evenings, he would make sure to serve her the smallest touch more wine than himself. Before Mrs. Hughes sat down to breakfast he would align the silverware just right: fork and knife parallel to each other, tucked under the plate just enough so the blade would be hidden and the utensils easy to grasp. The writing on the menus became more deliberate, every _t_ crossed and _i_ dotted; he knew that his handwriting could stray towards illegible, which she would teasingly point out on occasion, to his dismay. Even in town browsing the array of shops and stores, his thoughts would turn to her when appraising the inherent value of a novel or glancing in at a window filled with new women's fashions; he most recently told Mrs. Hughes he saw a novel named "Anne of Green Gables," read a tidbit about the young red-headed firebrand, thought she would enjoy it, purchased it on a whim and gave it to her, to her delight. (Of course, he would never disclose that the young red-headed firebrand of the novel reminded him of a young Elsie, reminded him more than he would care to admit.)

And as time passed, Carson became more heavy-handed in his approach towards Mrs. Hughes. More and more wine would be added to her glass. Sometimes at her place by the table she would find a slice of lemon with her tea. His rare indulgences in laughs became easier and his smiles warmer. He had even given her one of his mother's antique broaches as a birthday present, just happening to find it while reorganizing his drawers. Even so, his advances were so minuscule, only small variations to daily routine, that even the most discerning eye would struggle to uncover his true intentions.

Because of his lifetime devotion to servitude, Carson never found it difficult to lend himself over to Mrs. Hughes. He treated her as he treated Downton: with the utmost respect and chivalry. To him, she was as delicate and as revered as the heirlooms found inside the house. She endured as the house aged— with a constant and undying beauty. Her grace was to be treasured, so he was always very cautious, very careful with her. He felt the ferocious power of his own love, and refused himself of every passion, lest it be released and break the exquisite artifacts of her heart. He resolved to walk the corridors of her heart with the silent, dainty footsteps of a butler, knocking ever so gently at the doorway, politely requesting his entrance inside her affections. Every step was deliberate, every smile a well-meaning progression. Yes, to serve her was a pleasure, so he would do it with the care, deference and honor given to the noblewoman he regarded her as.

To hurt Mrs. Elsie Hughes once was enough for a lifetime, and served as Charles Carson's greatest fear—a repeat performance.

His fears kept him from enjoying the fair in Thrisk with the rest of the downstairs staff. Because although his love for her singed the very fibers of his being, it was too much, far too much. Too much to contain within himself, and too much to be trusted. He thought of winning her a prize at the games, riding together on the carousel, holding her hand as they walked through the stalls—and ended these fantasies immediately. Charles Carson feared himself, and so seized the reins to his love and took back control. He tamed the stallion, said that he would be too uptight for anyone else to enjoy themselves. And although his excuse was more or less true, Carson wanted to ensure Mrs. Hughes' safety. For love is a dangerous and excitable beast, and when left unreciprocated, corrodes the heart inside out. Pain is only love left homeless, and Carson was not yet willing to ask his love permittance into her delicately elegant home.

Pain would prove to be an abiding companion in the weeks to come. The strong and independent Lady Mary was left emotional ravaged by the sudden death of Mr. Matthew Crawley, and so too was the resolute butler as a result. The jauntiness of his step slackened, the sturdiness of his posture slumped. The genuine smiles he would offer her would sink just a little. His shoulders leaned forward under the substantial weight he now carried, labored under broken dreams and mementos of more promising days. He carried these for Lady Mary, bore her sorrows as an act of servitude. Charles Carson saw no difference between the daily drudgery of mending shirts and mending hearts, and so he did it with the quiet, resilient pride of a man born into his tasks.

And just when he had thought that he had lost himself in his own sorrows, he began to find loose buttons on his dress shirts done up nicely, small crocheted dollies and trinkets adorning his shelves, and a woman named Elsie adorning his heart with her sentiments as well.


End file.
